Giving The Moon
by KnightMara
Summary: A one-shot depicting what Lupin's first experience with the Wolfsbane Potion must have been like--both for himself and its brewer. Rated for language and graphic descriptions.


**Giving the Moon**

By KnightMara

_A/N: The usual disclaimers apply. The characters and recognizable situations below are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling. I am merely playing with her creations._

_I also apologize if this has been done before. It was just a scenario that popped into my head and begged to be written; the fact that it turned from a short one-shot into a very long one-shot was completely unplanned._

_Also, I am not one for Snape-Lupin bonding, so do not look for it here. I doubt that the two men ever had a conversation between them that was anything more than civil. That does not, however, make their interactions any less compelling—at least not to me._

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2 July, 1993

The goblet steamed as he held it in his pale hands, the pungent odor from the ominously murky concoction within wafting upward to pervade his nostrils. He was immediately thankful for the chair beneath him, for had he been standing, he might have swayed on the spot. The noxious stench alone was enough to make him gag, let alone the fact that several of the ingredients within were _toxic_.

Lethal, even, to—well, to someone like him.

"There really_ is_ no time like the present, Lupin. Drink it."

Knowing that the Potions Master was right, Remus Lupin brought the smoking goblet to his lips and took his first swallow. The hot, bitter, viscous substance burned his throat, his mouth, and even his sinus cavities before his reflexes unconsciously kicked in and tried to forcibly eject the foul potion from his body. For a full defiant second, he kept his lips closed and tried to swallow it back, but his body was insistent, and a moment later he was sputtering and choking, flecks of green spraying from his lips as he groaned, "Oh, God . . .."

"Well, what did you expect? Pumpkin juice?" Severus Snape's oily drawl mocked one of Madame Pomfrey's favorite phrases.

"Course not," Lupin coughed, still trying to will his throat back under control. "I..." _choke,_ "just didn't..." _gasp,_ "expect..." _sputtering cough_.

"It's the aconite," Snape interjected, slowly enunciating every syllable of the vile word as though lecturing to an idiotic first-year. "You're going to have to force your body to accept it. Now drink!"

Lupin dutifully obeyed, although it took every ounce of willpower just to bring his mouth to the goblet a second time. His eyes watered even as his lips closed around the edge of the goblet, the waxen touch of the potion against his upper lip threatening to make him retch. Unable to take even a bolstering breath because of the stench and the steam, he simply knocked back his head as though taking a shot of firewhiskey . . . or an agonizingly slow pull of the most rancid firewhiskey imaginable, as it would seem . . . keeping his head back and managing to maintain his hold on the goblet with increasingly shaking hands until every last drop had oozed its way down his throat. No sooner was it empty than the goblet went flying across the dungeon to clatter on the floor, the hand that had been holding it clamping over his mouth in a desperate attempt to keep the potion from following the goblet's trajectory.

"Yes, to throw other people's belongings is so very _humane_, Lupin," Snape sneered derisively as he moved to retrieve the goblet, but Remus barely heard him.

With both hands now clamped firmly over his mouth as he bent double, Remus did his best to keep the roiling waves of nausea in his body from triumphing over his will. For a few pregnant moments, it seemed unclear if he would succeed, especially when his stomach began to spasm so violently he thought he might fall out of his chair. At length, he was able to at least partially sit up and uncover his mouth, using his trembling hands to wipe away the sweat that had poured from his forehead into his eyes.

"Are you quite finished with the theatrics?"

"Theatrics?" Lupin croaked sharply, bringing his sweat soaked face up to regard the other man in furious disbelief. "Theatrics? I've just forced myself to ingest a substance that very well could end up killing me, and you accuse me of _theatrics?_ Just who the hell are . . . oh, God . . .." He broke off, doubling over again as a few more spasms, albeit slightly milder this time, seized his insides.

"As much as I might take delight in your demise, the potion is perfectly safe," replied Snape coldly. "It has been produced and ingested on numerous occasions, and to this date, no _werewolf_, regrettably, has perished as a result." He walked away to return a moment later with a glass of water.

Doubled over, still trembling and sweating, Remus was not aware of the presence of the water until the cold glass had been pressed to his temple. Jerking up in surprise, he regarded the glass with a mixture of confusion and suspicion before finally taking it from the Potions Master and sipping on it gingerly.

"Your body simply has to condition itself to tolerate the aconite in the potion," Snape continued, moving to begin the process of cleaning up. "By the time you take your last dose, you should have very few, if any, ill effects."

The other man said nothing, not yet trusting himself to speak again. He simply continued to sip on his water as he allowed the cold silence to fill the room. The only sound was the rare clink of metal or glass as Snape busied himself with cleaning and arranging his equipment. When at last his glass was empty, Remus slowly and carefully got to his feet, placing the glass upon a nearby desk and walking sluggishly toward the far wall. He bent down to retrieve the goblet he had thrown earlier, noting as he did that tendrils of smoke still rose from its inner surface, mocking him as relentlessly as the goblet's owner was wont to do. Trying to ignore both the smoke and the stench, he carried it over to Snape's worktable. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice still rough from the effects of the potion.

The vials Snape was organizing suddenly began to clank together loudly, betraying his agitation. "Dumbledore is a fool to hire you," he snarled. "A dark creature teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts . . .."

Ignoring the insult, Lupin continued on as softly as before, "And when am I to expect my next dose?"

Black eyes met his and lingered there for a moment. "Tomorrow morning," Snape answered coldly. "And then another dose just before _moonrise_." He practically spat the last word.

Lupin nodded, forcing a pleasant smile upon his face. "Very well, then, Severus." Snape's eyes narrowed at Lupin's casual use of his given name. "Until tomorrow, then. Cheers."

With that last, chipper word hanging mockingly in the air between them, he strode purposefully to the door and left, leaving a steaming goblet and an equally smoldering Potions Master behind him.

3 July, 1993

Snape, it seemed, spoke the truth about the potion's effects. The second goblet, while still ghastly, produced only some mild sweating and a few irritating stomach spasms. The third merely made Lupin shudder.

"And now, what?" he asked, setting the still-smoking goblet upon Snape's desk and pulling a face.

The Potions Master rose and strode toward the door. "And now you follow me."

Remus felt a thrill of trepidation at the notion that his fate was currently entirely in the hands of Severus Snape, a man whose attitude toward Lupin was not hard to discern; even worse, he did not even know where he was being taken. Remus nevertheless trudged obediently behind Snape as he led the way up from the dungeons and, rather surprisingly, toward the classrooms. The path they took was comfortingly familiar, and yet the nostalgia he felt was colored by thoughts of how long it had been since he had walked these halls, and those who had been with him the last time he had. Fortunately, they reached their destination rather quickly, and when Snape rounded the last corner and stopped before a locked door, Lupin gasped.

"Isn't this . . .." he began, as Snape unlocked the door.

Pushing it open, the Potions Master replied, "Your new home, Lupin."

Blinking his eyes as he stepped across the threshold, Remus drew a deep breath. Although all of the furniture had been removed, leaving a large empty space, it was nonetheless clearly recognizable. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom," he whispered.

"Yes," sneered Snape. "I thought you might want to make it your own for this experiment. In whatever _manner_ you prefer."

Remus barely heard him as he looked around worriedly. "But can't I get out through the windows, or the small door to the office?"

Snape was idly twirling his wand in his long, thin, sallow fingers. "The doors have been charmed, but if you prefer to plummet to your death, by all means, try the windows."

Lupin turned to meet his gaze and saw that the other man's smile was downright sinister. He swallowed, realizing that even though he had survived the potion, he had not yet survived the experiment. Clearing his throat, he ventured, "But it _is_ supposed to make me _safe_, is it not?"

"As safe as a dark creature can be, I suppose," Snape replied darkly. "The Wolfsbane Potion _should_ allow you to keep your _mind_ during the transformation," he paused, adding with biting emphasis, "but you will still be a _werewolf_."

"Fur, fangs, and a tail. Got it." Lupin quipped lightly, though it was obvious that both his tone and the weak grin on his face were forced.

Snape took a step closer to him and said in a voice no less intimidating for all its quietness, "You are anxious, and deservedly so. The safety and sanity of this entire situation is dubious at best. You are and will continue to be a dangerous creature, and no potion will change that, no matter what Albus believes." He then turned abruptly on his heel and strode toward the door. "I shall be back in the morning."

"And if things have gone wrong?"

Snape paused just before shutting the door. "I am prepared for any contingency. Are you?" The door closed behind him, and Remus heard the sound of locks and spells being activated on the other side. Then nothing.

The silence from without was unnatural. Silencing spells, then.

"Thank you, Severus," he sighed before crossing the empty room to gaze through the narrow, paned windows onto the Hogwarts grounds. The setting sun cast long shadows on the grass far below, and Remus took small comfort in the truth of Snape's words. Even a werewolf would not survive a fall from this height should the potion fail to work. With a last, resigned look at the dusky sky, Remus turned and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Now that he was alone, confined within the classroom that would indeed be his if this potion worked as it should, a million fears assailed him. Yes, there were several fears that stemmed from the possibility of the potion's failure; he could die, destroy the classroom, terrorize the school, disappoint Albus, ruin Snape's career—and Albus's as well, more than likely—lose the only real job he'd been given before it had ever started, lose the only chance would get to see Harry again, and fail to protect James's only son from Black. The last was, after all, the reason for Dumbledore's job offer in the first place. His last mental image of Harry, the baby with his dad's messy black hair and his mum's brilliant green eyes, flooded his mind's eye, and he resolved that failure was not an option.

However, that resolve brought forth a whole new set of fears, and he burned with shame in the knowledge that they were all selfish, almost childish fears. He had, after all, been bitten as a young boy, and in all the years since, his experiences each and every month had been comfortingly routine—the only comfort he had ever drawn from the whole painful ordeal. Part of that routine was the loss of his consciousness—the loss of the part of him that made him Remus. Since the war, he likened it to the experience of blacking out from the effects of the Cruciatus; in his case, it was a mental retreat from the pain of transformation, a retreat granted to him by the curse that caused the transformation itself. It was the single, microscopic blessing among the horrors of being a werewolf—he never, _ever_ recalled a transformation. There was pain on the onset, pain upon waking, and blessed oblivion in between.

The very thought of retaining consciousness throughout the entire transformation was, quite literally, terrifying. To be aware of the changes taking place as well as the pain, to see and feel the effects of the curse upon his body, to see paws where hands should be, or fur instead of skin . . . to walk on all fours when the mind of Remus Lupin knew he was supposed to stand . . . all of this, strangely, frightened him more than the possibility of his own death. Death, after all, would bring with it that familiar, albeit a more permanent, oblivion. And how many times in his life had he welcomed death, courted it, challenged it, defied it, and longed for it? He alone of his friends—his _true_ friends—had escaped it, although he alone had always been the one without a future, without a _life_. No, Remus Lupin did not _live_; he merely _existed_ from one day to the next, utterly dependent upon the pretence that he was a man with a condition—a _man_ with a condition. This pretense was the basis for his very identity: Remus John Lupin, was not the werewolf, but rather a man who suffered from the effects of a transformation he himself had never had to witness.

How deeply would his perception of self change if the potion worked? What would happen once the part of him that made him Remus, the man, continued to exist within the body of the wolf? What would happen once he saw for himself what had prompted his friends to become animagi, had terrified Severus Snape, and had turned his entire future into a long, empty corridor of locked doors and dead ends?

A familiar tingling along his spine told him that there was no more time for fears or questions. This transformation would unfold in its own course, no matter what he dreaded or hoped.

In an instant, the tingling blossomed into full-fledged pain, and Remus convulsed with a scream, his body jerking out of his control. The back of his head hit the hard wood floor of the classroom as his back arched up, his knees knocking against the stone wall against which he had just been sitting. Another convulsion, and now his face was pressed into the junction of wall and floor, his hands flailing wildly against stone and wood as the fingers did their all too familiar, and agonizing, dance of deformation. His toes, too, were moving violently within his shoes.

His shoes! Merlin's beard, he was still fully clothed! And in the robes he had worn earlier this morning to run several errands on Diagon Alley! Even through the pain, he lamented the fact that they would be utterly destroyed, for there was no removing them now, not when his body was no longer his to control.

He heard the first familiar pop before the agony of breaking bones registered itself in his awareness. He knew with far too much clarity that he was screaming—he always screamed—even as his jaw began shifting and reforming itself within a skull that felt as though it was being cleaved in two. The knees would be next, he thought almost clinically—wondering, even as he hollered in torment, how he remembered such a thing—and a moment later, they, too, reformed themselves with resounding cracks that brought Remus's screams to a fevered pitch. There was no time to take even a sobbing breath, for his skin suddenly began crawling with tiny pinpricks of pain, millions of nerve endings set afire in an instant encompassing his entire body. Oh, God it had to stop! He'd never known this much pain during a transformation! It bloody had to stop!

He continued to scream as his mouth became flooded with pain and the coppery tang of blood. Long, canine teeth bit into the skin of his lips as he howled in agony. His tongue, grown too long, spilled onto the floor, and he both tasted and smelled a mixture of sweat, oil, blood, and hair. Flashes of crimson and silver exploded behind his tightly closed lids, and he longed, begged, _needed_ the sweet, cool touch of oblivion. Damn Severus and damn the potion for prolonging his torment!

Another convulsion and another eruption of pain, this time from the base of his spine, ripped sounds from his throat that were no longer screams, no longer even human. He could now _hear_ the wolf that he was becoming, and its voice grew louder as the torment increased—oh, God, how could it possibly _increase!_ His entire torso burned with the shifting of muscle and skin and—

Agony like an arrow lodged itself in his chest as the grinding and cracking of bone resounded from his sternum. He was going to die! No one could survive this! Several more cracks as his ribcage reshaped itself, internal organs shifting within the rapidly changing cavity . . . and he knew no more.

A dull, throbbing ache greeted his return to consciousness, and for several long minutes, Remus kept his eyes closed, focusing simply on inhaling and exhaling. He was alive, but he knew little more than that. He must have blacked out, but he was not entirely sure, and he certainly didn't know why. And for how long had he lost consciousness? Five minutes? An hour? The entire full moon? Sweet Merlin, where was he?

Left with little other choice than to face whatever situation he now found himself in, he opened his eyes. Dim light greeted him, and he realized that it was still night. On the heels of this discovery came the second, more alarming one.

Two paws rested themselves, one atop the other, upon the floor in front the nose that was both too long and too dark to be his own, human one. He tensed his right arm, and one of the paws twitched. A flick of the left wrist, or what should have been his left wrist, and the other paw jerked awkwardly.

Oh . . . sweet . . . Merlin . . ..

Snape's potion had worked. He was now a man in a wolf's body.

He couldn't think. He couldn't react. He simply stared at the two paws in front of him, watching as each one moved in response to the flexing and extending of unfamiliar muscles. He dragged the bottom paw, his former right hand, lazily along the floor, and he both heard and felt the claws scrape wood.

He was a wolf.

He, Remus John Lupin, was a wolf.

He continued shifting his paws, unable to process any deeper thought than that singular shocking truth, until a sudden itch had his whole body jerking. Heaving this new, unfamiliar body into something resembling a seated position, he quickly searched for the source of the itch. His legs, bent oddly in front of him, yet firmly planted on the floor and ready to stand, seemed itch-free. His front legs were also comfortable, if considerably awkward. He looked down at his . . . belly, he thought, though "underside" seemed more appropriate. No bellybutton, _several pairs _of nipples running the length of his underside, and some impressive, if furry, male doggy bits had him taking several glances downward. He suddenly recalled Padfoot's delight in discovering the joys of lifting a leg that first night as an animagus, and he nearly laughed at his own spark of curiosity.

There it was! A thump against the itchy part of his body! He quickly jumped to all fours, marveling at the speed with which he maneuvered this unfamiliar body, but even as he spun around, he saw nothing but the empty classroom all around. The itch, however was still there, although now he noted that it was strangely _behind _him! He looked backward, puzzling over how one could have an itch in empty space when he caught sight of what he now realized was the source of the mystery itch. The large tufted tail began wagging as he happily discovered that he could actually _feel_ this completely remarkable part of his new anatomy.

He had a tail! He wanted to laugh, and in response, the tail wagged even harder! Without thinking, he lifted his body into a sort of happy leap, which led to a second and a third as he discovered the unusual sensations of floor against paw, air through fur, and a leg that could reach all the way up to scratch behind an ear.

He caught sight of his shredded clothing out of the corner of his eye and he turned toward it, nudging the course material of his robes with his new wolf's snout. Several odors assaulted him, and he jerked his nose away from the pungent material in surprise. Was that _breakfast_ he smelled? He cautiously brought his nose closer, and sure enough he smelled the cinnamon he had sprinkled onto his toast while conversing with Professor McGonagall. Of course, the scent was practically smothered by the remnants of the smoke of that appalling Wolfsbane Potion, but it was there nonetheless. He could also smell the cat that had rubbed against his leg outside of Flourish and Blott's, and the pipe that had been smoked by a man just inside the door to the Leaky Cauldron. More tantalizingly, he could smell the empty chocolate wrapper that had been inside his pocket, wherever his pocket now was. Hoping to find it, he gripped a piece of cloth between his teeth and shook it out until it was revealed to be a part of his sleeve. He then tossed it behind him and picked up another piece of cloth, shaking it out as well and only catching the small glint of silver out of the corner of his eye as it flew through the air. He followed its arcing path, watching as it landed on the windowsill a few feet away.

He padded over to the window, lifted his front paws onto the sill, and then abruptly froze. The silver wrapper went unnoticed as Remus gazed intently at his own paws, bathed, as he now was, in the silver light of the full moon. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from his paws, looking up into the clear night sky until his eyes locked upon the perfectly spherical white orb that seemed to be gazing right back.

It had been over two decades since he had consciously looked upon the full moon, nearly thirty years since he had seen the soft, white glow of its light upon the grass and trees. He stared at it now.

This was the enemy that had robbed him of so much during his life, and he had not even been able to look upon it in all these years. Oh, how could something so beautiful bring so much pain? Did the moon above even know how much hardship it had brought into the life of the man—the wolf—who now stared intently back at it?

Was it truly the fault of the moon, or was the moon as much a victim of circumstance as he was?

Would he ever be able to look away?

For a long time, he did not. He simply watched as the shining orb continued its path across the sky, and eventually, it disappeared from view above the window frame. Not knowing how long he had stared, and blinking his eyes free of the lingering image of the brilliant satellite, Remus then looked out across the Hogwarts grounds, seeing the sharp-edged shadows of the full moon light beneath the trees, the moon's glittering reflection upon the waves of the Black Lake, and the unique way the rocky walls of Hogwart's towers seemed to glisten. It was Hogwarts as he had never seen it before . . . and the world as he had not seen it for longer than he could remember. The odd little sensation behind him told him that his tail was wagging once more.

Sighing through his lengthened nose, he realized that for the first time in a very long time, he felt alive . . . and it was the strange wagging sensation of the tail behind him that really made him realize how truly alive he was. Each twitch of his tail was born of a depth of feeling he could not even comprehend, and only the living may truly feel anything. There is no emotion in the black abyss of oblivion. There is no discovery in the act of merely existing day to day.

He dropped back onto the ground, stretching out his stiff and sore canine muscles, and sighed again. Maybe he had been right to fear this transformation. Perhaps his anxiety over the possibility of having to redefine himself had been well founded. Indeed, what kind of man was he to feel more alive while in the body of a wolf? What kind of _man_ was he?

Even now, with all his questions and introspections, what was he really but merely a tame _wolf_? Did his consciousness truly make him a _man_?

Curling up on the floor, he rested his head upon his paws and glanced about the classroom, lost in thought. Who was he? At this very moment, with the furry pillow beneath his equally furry head belonging to none other than his own transformed body, who was he? Was he Remus John Lupin, or was he now something, or someone else? And who or what was Moony? Had this body, this wolf body that he now inhabited, possessed its own consciousness before this night? Had these eyes looked upon the full moon for all those years while the man now trapped behind them had not? Had the wolf howled at the moon? Had it delighted in it, or cursed it?

He suddenly recalled something James had said casually toward the end of fifth year. "You know, you're much more cheerful as a wolf, mate."

The circumstances surrounding the comment came flooding back. Remus had skipped his meeting with McGonagall, feeling that it was futile to discuss his future and the courses necessary to obtain a particular career. Remus had known that there was no future to discuss, no career to obtain, and the knowledge that he had only two more years of a "normal" life had thrown him into a deep well of depression. It had not helped that the full moon had been only a day away. For hours, he had avoided his friends, and it had been Peter—poor, sentimental Peter—who had found him curled in a filthy corner of the owlry. Peter had tried to cheer him up by talking about the adventures the others had planned for the coming full moon, but this had only served to make Remus even more withdrawn for the remainder of the time leading up to his confinement in the Shrieking Shack.

But when he had awoken from his transformation, surrounded by three smiling friends, he had felt better in spite of the aches and pains in his body.

"That was the most fun we've had in days!" Sirius had crowed—Sirius, whose disregard for darker side of being a werewolf should have been a great, big, flashing warning of what he was to become . . . and what he would do to Snape only a month later.

"That's because ol' Moony doesn't mope about like Remus does," James had said with a smile. "You know, you're much more cheerful as a wolf, mate."

"Amen to that!" shouted Sirius.

James had then regarded the other boy and said with a laugh. "Ever think of making _your_ change permanent, Sirius? Because, frankly, I think you make a much better dog!"

Peter had squeaked with laughter, and even Remus had found himself chuckling weakly.

Now, recalling how cheerful he'd been after that transformation, Remus supposed James might have been right, although he could not really wrap his head around the reason for it. After all, the werewolf was _dangerous_! It had been locked in a cellar, the Shrieking Shack, a reinforced shed, and other _safe places_ in order to keep it away from humans! Hell, even now he was locked in an empty classroom. How could a werewolf, a _dangerous_ dark creature, be . . . cheerful?

Then again, had not Remus the wolf delighted in the man's shredded clothes and the strange wagging of his tail? Had he not stared at the moon for what must have been hours, his tail still wagging even as he gazed upon his greatest enemy?

Perhaps this body did have its own consciousness . . . a canine personality that now infused his own, more human, one. Perhaps this is what he had been like with James and Sirius and Peter, their animal companionship taming the savagery of the werewolf just as Snape's Wolfbane Potion had. Perhaps the potion had finally bridged the ever-elusive gap between man and wolf, allowing him to finally see the world through the wolf's eyes.

But then again, hadn't that been what he had feared about the potion to begin with?

His tail gave a thump as he found himself amused by his own circular logic. He had come full circle in his introspection, and still had not arrived at any clear understanding of . . . well, anything at all. He supposed he would have to wait until morning, when he was back in his human body, to really make sense of things.

His thoughts now directed toward his upcoming second transformation, he felt a new wave of apprehension wash over him. The pain he had endured whilst transforming into a wolf was still fresh in his memory. It had been brutal—worse than even the _Cruciatus_, and certainly worse than any other transformation before. Indeed, hadn't he blacked out for a time, losing consciousness as a human would when the pain became too severe to withstand? With no knowledge of how long he and his wolf's body had been unconscious after his transformation, he could not possibly predict what would happen when he returned to his human form. Would he lose consciousness again, and if so, for how long?

And when Snape came to claim him in the morning, how would the Potions Master know that the Wolfsbane Potion had worked if Remus were still unconscious at sunrise?

An idea suddenly came to him, and he rose to his feet . . . his paws, rather . . . and padded over to the pile of shredded clothing on the floor. He would leave a clear message for Snape in the only way he could, and he only hoped he had enough time before moonset to complete his task.

4 July, 1993

If it were possible to both stalk purposefully and walk begrudgingly at the same time, this was the stride of Severus Snape as he approached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom shortly after dawn. He needed to know that the potion he had brewed had worked—it _had_ to have worked, for nothing he had ever brewed had failed—but there was always the possibility of seeing the evidence of a failure. Having seen Lupin in his . . . well, having seen a werewolf in person . . . made him dread the latter even more than was usual for him.

He stopped in front of the locked classroom door, wand at the ready, and took a fortifying breath so quiet and subtle, none who might have passed at that moment would have seen even the briefest pause. He then proceeded to disengage the charms and unlock the door. Then, again after the most miniscule of pauses, he opened the door.

The first thing he saw brought a satisfied smile to his lips that quickly vanished, lest it be seen by the room's occupant. The word "success" had been carefully spelled out on the floor just in front of the door, the letters having been formed by twisted pieces of what Snape recognized as the shredded remains of the robes Lupin had been wearing yesterday. He briefly wondered why Lupin had bothered to fashion such a message in the first place, but then, glancing around the room, he realized that the werewolf was nowhere to be seen.

Considering the fact that the room was completely empty of furniture made this little turn of events rather odd, to say the least. Where could Lupin be hiding?

Stepping fully into the room, Snape let his gaze sweep over every square inch of it, searching for any sign of the werewolf. When he saw nothing, he grimaced, remembering his conversation with Lupin the previous night. With grim purpose, he crossed to the window opposite the door and looked down. Only slightly relieved that he did not see a furry splatter on the ground below, he turned from the window in confusion.

It was then that he saw the foot protruding from the alcove on the far end of the classroom, where the cupboard usually stood. At this angle and distance, only the foot could be seen, but it was distinctly human, a fact that made some of the tension in Snape's shoulders melt away.

So, Lupin had kept his mind, and he was human again. Clearly, he was also feeling modest, judging from the fact that he had tucked himself so obviously out of sight, the remnants of his clothing having been used to spell out the message by the door.

"Nice to see you only destroyed your clothes, Lupin," Snape called out. "That must have been an novel, if expensive, experience for you."

He received no reply. Conjuring a blanket and heaving an impatient sigh, he called again, "Come now, Lupin. Surely you don't expect me to stand around while you sleep the day away."

The foot on the far end of the room did not even twitch. Hidden as he was, the rest of Lupin's body was impossible to see, but the stillness of the foot was unnerving.

Perhaps something _had_ gone wrong. "Lupin," Snape called out, louder this time. "Lupin, answer me!"

Nothing. The foot was still and pale.

Conjured blanket in hand, Snape crossed the length of the room as quickly as he dared, muttering, "Fuck, I've killed him." Indeed, once Snape could see the rest of Lupin's body, he thought the werewolf couldn't possibly be anything _but _dead. Curled almost into a fetal position, his head at an odd angle against the stone wall of the alcove, Lupin looked like a grotesque, waxy mannequin that had been tossed into a corner. His skin was of a pale, corpse-like hue, and his lined face seemed etched into a slackened grimace of pain. It was an expression Snape had seen on too many of the Dark Lord's victims in the past, and it chilled him.

As much as he disliked the werewolf, it had never been his intention to kill him.

What the hell had gone wrong?

He dropped to a crouch, reaching a hand over to grasp Lupin's wrist, and he was both shocked and relieved to find a pulse. Letting go of the wrist, he then tapped none too gently on Lupin's cheek, saying, "Lupin? Lupin? For fuck's sake, wake up!"

Snape immediately saw movement behind the garishly blue eyelids, and he continued tapping, harder this time. "I am not hauling your dead weight down to the hospital wing, so you had better _wake up_!"

It seemed like ages before the lids parted slightly, and Snape could see the erratic movement of a very dark and dilated pupil in each eye as the werewolf struggled back to consciousness. "Severus?" Lupin croaked before his eyes were even fully open.

"No, it's bloody Father Christmas," Snape snapped in reply. "What the bloody hell happened? I thought you were dead."

"It worked," the other whispered.

"Yes, I know it worked," retorted Snape impatiently. "I read your little 'note'."

Lupin's eyes opened more fully, and they looked in the direction of the message he had left on the floor. Then they came back to stare glassily at Snape. "Kept my mind," he slurred.

"I gathered as much from your message!" Snape had little patience as it was, and Lupin's statements of the obvious were quickly eating away at what little patience was left. "But what happened? Why do you look like a damned corpse? Or do you always look like this?"

"Kept my mind," Lupin repeated, his eyes crossing slightly as he obviously tried to keep his focus on Snape.

"Yes, I _know_!"

"During the transformations," Lupin continued as though he had not heard him. He blinked his eyes slowly.

"That was the plan!" Snape spat, now reaching that last frayed edge of his patience. Now, he almost wished that Lupin had been dead. He would have been much less irritating.

To his surprise, the corners of Lupin's lips curved upward in a weak smile. "Good plan," he said softly. "_Painful_ execution."

It was then that Snape understood, and he cursed himself for not seeing it before. The waxen appearance . . . the pained expression . . .. Lupin looked as though he'd been _Crucioed_ beyond the limits of endurance. He swallowed. "You mean the transformation itself. But haven't you, that is, before?" he trailed off, not sure how to phrase his question.

"Experienced this sort of pain?" Lupin finished for him. "Not like this, no. Always lost my mind early on."

"But last night you stayed conscious."

"Almost," Lupin corrected, smiling weakly once more. "Blacked out when I'd reached my limits. Both times. Left the message in case I was still out." He closed his eyes. "Guess I was."

Snape turned his gaze to the clock on the wall. "Moonset was around six-fifteen. It is nearly seven now." He looked back at Lupin. "You were out for forty-five minutes."

"Hmm," Lupin murmured, his eyes still closed. He looked as though he were losing the battle to stay awake. Even now, though obviously breathing, he looked closer to death than life.

To be honest, Snape had not even thought about the possibility of there being any pain involved. He knew that the physical injuries that werewolves suffered post-transformation were the result of their feral need to attack themselves while their minds were gone; it had never occurred to him that the transformation itself might be painful. Then again, he had never bothered to ask. However, from the looks of things, Lupin was fortunate to have held onto his sanity.

"I shall have to do some research into finding something to help with pain," he said, as much to himself as to the werewolf. "Perhaps as an addition to the potion, provided it doesn't interfere with its effectiveness."

Lupin's glassy, bloodshot eyes opened again. "It worked," he said quietly. "Don't mess."

Snape felt a flash of irritation flare up inside. "I don't need you to be a martyr, Lupin," he growled. "And I have no intention of covering your classes after the full moons because you can't teach. Hell, right now you look more like an inferi than a werewolf! You parade around the school looking like this and you'll give the first-years nightmares."

In response, the werewolf had the gall to chuckle. "I never knew you cared."

"Oh, grow up, Lupin!" Snape spat, getting to his feet and glaring down at the werewolf. "This is a bloody mess!"

"I'm surprised to hear you say so," the other joked. "One would think you'd be delighted to have me suffer in order for your potion to work. And it _does_ work, Severus."

"Shut up!" Snape was growing even angrier at Lupin's cavalier attitude. "I've half a mind to leave you here until you can walk on your own!"

"Would you at least leave the blanket when you go?"

"Fuck you!" he snarled, his patience finally snapping completely to release all of the anger and resentment he had bottled inside since Dumbledore had made his ridiculous request. Hurling the blanket at Lupin's naked body, he fumed, "I fucking thought I'd killed you when I came in here, and you dare to make light of what is obviously a very serious shortcoming of the potion that _I've_ been _ordered_ to brew for_ you!_ Hell, you're only here because of that damn potion! That and Dumbledore's misplaced trust in you, so show me some damn respect!"

The smile disappeared from Lupin's face. "I'm sorry."

"Of course you are!" Snape snapped sarcastically.

"No, really," the werewolf pressed, his trembling hands clutching the blanket to his chest, like a child who has just been reprimanded and sent to bed without supper. It made him look pathetic and weak. "I owe you a great deal, Severus."

"Don't patronize me, werewolf!" He spun away from the weak-looking creature and stalked to the window.

"You've given me the moon," he heard Lupin say from behind as he walked. The asinine words brought him spinning around again, glaring at the werewolf.

"I just fucking told you not to-"

"After nearly thirty years," Lupin continued, and there was something strangely earnest in his weak voice and pale expression. "You gave me the moon last night, Severus. And for that alone, I can't thank you enough."

It did not take Snape long to understand what he meant. He drew a slow breath through his nose before asking harshly, "And just what good is the moon to you? It is still your enemy. It will still inflict pain. And you will still be at its mercy."

"But I can finally see it with my own eyes," the other replied softly. "And for the first time, I can see myself in its light."

Snape's eyes narrowed at the figure in the corner, but he said nothing. He now realized that Lupin was attempting to forge a connection between them—making a pathetic attempt to show that he understood what Snape had seen all those years ago, and what it was that made him hate the werewolf. Lupin, however, could not comprehend that understanding did not absolve him of the past; the moon's light would not wash him clean or right his wrongs. _Seeing_ what he was would not _change_ what he was. And Snape would never let him forget that.

"Severus?" Lupin had attempted to sit up, his pallid face hopeful.

Let him hope in vain, Snape thought.

"You were right, Lupin," he said aloud. "I have done what I was asked to do, and it is clear that the potion works. The pain and resulting _weakness_, it seems, are an unfortunate, but inevitable side effect. I shall inform Professor Dumbledore that he should look into making arrangements for those days in which you find yourself _incapable_ of teaching. And as you seem quite incapable of doing anything for yourself at the moment, I shall send Madam Pomfrey up here to see to the physical aftereffects of your transformation."

He saw Lupin's expression falter. "Severus?"

"I am not here to give you _the moon_, Lupin," he replied sharply.

And without another word, he exited the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, leaving its naked and weak professor slumped in an undignified heap in a corner.

_The moon, indeed_.


End file.
